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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25541299">Fervent</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoYouCeeEmNow/pseuds/DoYouCeeEmNow'>DoYouCeeEmNow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Fitting Finale [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Octopath Traveler (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, F/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Smut, Travelers as Family</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:42:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,113</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25541299</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoYouCeeEmNow/pseuds/DoYouCeeEmNow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I hadn’t counted on having you as confessor. That does throw my plans into disarray.”<br/>“Your plans?” She asked, and he saw her eyes narrow imperceptibly in suspicion.<br/>Kit sighed. “I can’t very well knock you unconscious and steal your clothes after such a pleasant conversation.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ophilia Clement/Kit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Fitting Finale [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1119207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fervent</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>What's that? <em>Two</em> years since I last posted to this series? <em>Presposterous</em>, I― </p><p>... Well bugger me.</p><p>LOOK, IT'S NOT MY FAULT. I AM JUST A HUGE PIECE OF TRASH WHO GOT SIDETRACKED BY LIFE AND STUFF. Maybe nobody's reading these anymore, but, like, whatever. I'm doing it anyway.</p><p>As for the reason of this pairing, come on: Kit Crossford is an honourary traveler, in my humble opinion. The poor naïve boy needs some atonement, and there's one traveler who's exceptionally good at providing just that.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When the Knights Ardante first entered Saintsbridge Cathedral, Ophilia did not look up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was lighting a candle and the flame was burning her match far too quickly for her taste, such that she feared the tongue of fire would singe her gloves. At her side, Emil was watching with similar focus. He was twelve now, of an age to enter into the Order of the Flame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Emil who first noted the commotion in the narthex, though the men had left the high entrance and were now progressing into the nave, disturbing congregants as they went.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like they found another one,” Emil softly said. He knew better than to raise his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia looked up, stifling her confusion. “Another what?” She asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emil turned back to her. “Right. You’ve only just arrived.” He accepted the lit candle she handed him, and together they stepped away from the choir and the Altar of Flame. “The Knights Ardante have been rounding up miscreants in Saintsbridge for near on a month now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miscreants?” Ophilia echoed. She raised her eyes to look at the unusual procession. They were dragging a man by the arms, though Ophilia did not understand why, when the prisoner seemed able-bodied and could likely walk of his own volition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Poisoners,” Emil said, lowering his voice even further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia frowned, shooting the young disciple a look. Then, she refocused on the prisoner. He wasn’t struggling. Indeed, he was trying to maintain an air of dignity, though it was a difficult thing to do when being dragged forward, dressed in rags, and looking like he’d woken in a gutter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for the first time, Ophilia’s heart squeezed in sympathy. What base choices had this man been forced to make to end up here?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bishop Bartolo emerged from one of the shrines in the transept, having finished attending to an old woman worshipping Steorra. He looked displeased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should we go?” Emil whispered, but Ophilia laid a hand on his narrow shoulder and shook her head infinitesimally. Perhaps Cyrus’ innate curiosity had rubbed off on her. She’d have to tell him when she saw him next. He’d think it was the highest of compliments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is the meaning of this?” Bartolo asked the head knight. He did not speak loudly, but in the vast open space, his voice echoed nonetheless. “Disturbing a holy peace― Could this not be handled on the parvis?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beggin’ pardon, Bishop,” the head knight said. “But we have need of the Flame’s guidance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Flame’s―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We caught three of them today,” the knight interrupted. “Two more await, but this one requested his right to a confession before the Flame.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As one, all eyes returned to the prisoner. Ophilia’s gaze settled upon him and she felt something in her snag― a thought, a feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A memory, too faint and fleeting to grasp before it was out of reach again, dancing at the edge of her recollection, like the flicker of a candle’s flame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Confession,” Bishop Bartolo echoed, looking wrought. His warm, wrinkled eyes went from one man to the next, then to the prisoner. “You know, of course, that confession is a private matter, and that it absolves one of sins before the Sacred Flame.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But not before men,” the head knight flatly declared. “So get on with it and then we’ll be out of your way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bishop Bartolo inhaled deeply, then exhaled. He did that when the youngest disciples tested him. At once his eyes flew around the vast cathedral, and then they settled on Ophilia, who still stood aside with Emil. He motioned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about it later,” Emil begged, but she merely smiled and gave him her prayer candle before approaching the Bishop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sirs. This is Lady Ophilia, a cleric of the Sacred Flame and emissary of Archbishop Lianna Clement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia bowed her head politely as she came closer. “Good morning.” It wasn’t, really. Outside, the spring rains were a veritable downpour, and the light in the cathedral was wet and dim. Still, she had always adhered to courtesy when she was uncertain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning,” the men mumbled back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bishop Bartolo placed a hand on her shoulder. “Lady Ophilia, if you wouldn’t mind taking confession this time... I must have a conversation with this one’s captain.” He shot the head knight a pointed look, and Ophilia knew disciplinary measures were looming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” she smiled. Her eyes went back to the prisoner, hoping to comfort him, and she nearly faltered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue eyes that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though it had been years―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This way,” the knights grumbled, jerking the startled prisoner to his feet. They dragged him to a confession cell and threw him in unceremoniously. It was then she saw his feet were bound. And his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really must protest―” She started.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s for your protection, miss,” the bigger knight, the one by the door, said. “Nasty business this one is caught up in. He’ll just as soon cut your throat if he thought there was profit in it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Impossible</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Ophilia nearly protested, but she swallowed the denial. Years had passed. Who knew if that wasn’t the truth?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you need any help,” the men said as she passed the door into the confession cell, “call out. We’ll be in there sooner than you can blink.” He leaned in, glaring at the man crumpled on the floor. “Y’hear that? No funny business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for your steadfast service, gentlemen,” Ophilia said, firmly shutting the door in their face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then silence reigned once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned to the lump on the floor, heart trembling in her chest. Had she dreamed it? Had she misrecognized―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he shifted and pushed himself to a sitting position as well as he could, and Ophilia was certain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Crossford?” She breathed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit Crossford hardly looked himself. He was thinner, and so grimy his once beautiful blond hair was now dark and matted, a muddy brown that went with his muddy rags. Indeed, there was no sign of the man she had once known.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for those eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked up at her, confusion on his face. “Miss Clement,” he finally rasped. He cleared his throat, and at last his voice felt more familiar. “It’s― I wish we could have met again in better circumstances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt her brows lift somewhat. “I fear I must agree. Would you mind explaining what, by Ælfric’s grace, has happened to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifted again, as though trying to find a comfortable position. At once, Ophilia was by his side, helping him into a chair. He had lost weight, she was practically sure of it. Years ago he had been a strapping young man, almost an aristocrat, well-fed, who filled out his clothes in ways no man would have been ashamed of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he raised his gaze to look up at her, though, he had the same halting effect as ever: a gentle intensity that had always warmed her to her core.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only now he seemed a little feverish. “And when was the last time you had a bath?” She asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too long ago,” he breathed. He watched her pull a chair for herself forward with what looked like wonder on his face. “You remember me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Remember him? Ophilia felt a most unladylike snort threaten to surface and stifled it. Even if she hadn’t once considered him one of the most obliviously handsome men of Orsterra, one could hardly forget the man who had, for love of his father, nearly brought about the end of the world. “Mr. Crossford,” she said, “if I should ever forget you, please tell my sister, for I will be quite unfit for any duty, having lost all sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amidst the grime, he managed a smile, though it was tinged with… something. Something sad. “Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her heart lanced to see that look upon his face, the empathetic creature inside of her attuning to him as it did to all living things in pain. “Forgive me, Mr. Crossford. Was that insensitive? I did not mean it to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit Crossford was silent for a moment. Looking at him head on, Ophilia once again noted the circles under his clear blue eyes, the grime in his hair, and the decidedly gaunt pull of his face. He had, in her memory, once been all youthful determination and good will, with a jawline a girl could wish to trace forever. Even his good-natured obliviousness to his own good looks had meshed with her fellow companions’ ― honourable as Olberic, bashful as Alfyn, single-minded as Cyrus, careful as Therion, whether they’d have protested against those truths or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, however… Gods, he looked positively sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand went to his forehead of its own accord, and he startled. “You don’t seem feverish, but you’ve clearly been skipping meals.” She tried very hard to keep the admonishment out of her voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I did not mean to― I did not realize they’d send me to you, Miss Clement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They?” She echoed, confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The knights. I was―” his voice trailed off, and he averted his gaze. “I was buying time. Had I known―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had he known... what? Her name? That she would be his confessor? Ophilia’s stomach flip-flopped nervously. Was she so unappealing as a confessor? She shifted her weight, unwrinkling her skirts. “I understand. Confession ought to be anonymous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He studied her, pain evident in his eyes. “Forgive me if I’ve given offense. I recognized you only when you turned. I didn’t know you were in Saintsbridge. Had I known, I’d never―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was apologizing far too much. She frowned at him in confusion. “Mr. Crossford, I understand perfectly. I will help you find a confessor you are comfortable with. That is your right. You need not apologize for seeking someone better suited―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could never do this to you,” he added, fumbling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia froze, surprised. “Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was stupid to be so hurt by something so benign. These things happened. She nevertheless felt the sting in her lungs like a barb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I see.” She straightened, averted her eyes. “Forgive me, Mr. Crossford. I was unaware― I did not know you esteemed me so little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Esteemed you too little?” He echoed, suddenly, with obvious surprise. “No, Miss Clement,” he hurried to correct her, “I esteem you too </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>to embroil you in… in…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In what, Mr. Crossford?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitated. It was strange, the things she noticed. The shape of his lips. The length of his legs. He looked at her with clear confusion, as though, perhaps, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>deserve to be committed. Then, casting a glance at the rainy window, high on the wall, he paused, tilting his head at her. “Did I not, some years ago, nearly bring about the destruction of the world by willingly walking into a trap laid by Lyblac, the daughter of an evil god, a sin only made greater by the fact that I needed to be rescued by you and your companions, at great peril to your lives?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia inhaled, but had nothing to say in protest. Well. He could be succinct.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit’s eyes were full of self-loathing; his lips pulled into a semblance of a smile. “I assure you, Miss Clement, that my shame is great, and that I have burdened you enough for many lifetimes. Let us leave it at that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If that is your only objection, I would much rather stay,” she blurted out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile faded, replaced by something she had not seen before. Fear. Vulnerability. At length, he looked once again away, up at the window, refusing to look at her. And he managed a small question. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her gaze went over his face, the clear signs of exhaustion and torment. He would be a handsome young man, in the prime of his life, with the frame and the build of a knight from a song, and the hair and eyes to go with it, if only he could tend himself. How could he be so weighed down by misery, even now? What had happened?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would ask you in turn why I should not be glad to reconnect with an old and dear acquaintance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tearing his eyes from the high window, he glanced down at her sideways. “Is that… a jest?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yes, Ophilia remembered. She had once thought Kit Crossford was as terrible at reading people as Therion. She stifled a smile. “Not a jest, I assure you.” She leaned towards him. “Mr. Crossford, I promise you that I never once blamed you for your choices or your deeds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grimaced, but said nothing. And yet, he did not insist that she leave. That was a small comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now explain what you mean by buying time,” she said, sternly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, a small smile pulled at his face, and she began to recognize the Kit Crossford of old. The memory of him fluttered inside of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged a little. “I’m going to make my escape. I don’t have a choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he was even more like Therion than she’d expected. “Is that so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have something I need to do. Something important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you under arrest, Mr. Crossford?” She insisted, pointedly. The line of his shoulders was taut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m doing something… bad.” He sighed. “But it’s in the service of the greater good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, now,” she said, crossing her arms. “This I must hear.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The traffickers were operating out of Saintsbridge. That much was clear. Kit couldn’t be sure that they weren’t also in other cities, but he was certain of this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Local poisoners, as they were called, had infiltrated the lower rungs of Saintsbridge’s population, selling their wares to wretches and local thugs alike.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their leader only went by the name of Big Loper, and Kit had never spoken to him personally. Yet. But he was getting close, working his way up the inner rungs of the underbelly. And when he finally got the bastard away from his cronies, he’d put an end to his evil business.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But to achieve this, he had to become part of the problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not much in terms of atonement,” he finished, slowly, “but it’s better than nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia Clement had listened to his explanation with rapt patience. Outside, the rain still poured. At last, she said, “Mr. Crossford, are you really risking all this to make amends for the matter of Galdera?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought that much was obvious. “I can’t fight all that well, but I can act. And infiltration is just another act.” He added, hastily, “I’ve dismantled networks like this twice before, this past year. Once in Everhold, and once in Riverford, west of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was troubled. It was clear in the furrow of her brow and the line of her lips. “Is that why you look so sick?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t thought he looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>sick. Sure, his hair had probably seen better days, and his cheeks might be a little more gaunt than they had been, and his nails were blackened with grime, and― right. Maybe he looked worse than he ought to. “I have to look the part of the hungering wastrel, the evil thug,” he said. Self-consciously, he ran a hand over his unkempt beard. “I apologize. As I said, I wish we could have met again in better circumstances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Crossford,” she said, “you do realize that there are guards outside who will insist on taking you to gaol on the simple basis of your associations, with no regard for your ulterior motives?” She pressed her lips together. “I could try to persuade them…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Kit said, firmly. “Don’t. No one outside this room can know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shook her head. “I think it’s time that you got a proper meal and a bath―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There will be time for that later,” Kit objected. “Right now, I must leave.” He pushed himself to his knees, hating his shackles. “I don’t suppose you’ll agree to lending me your cowl?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia looked at him as though he were mad. “That was going to be my next question. How were you planning to make your escape?” She motioned to the high walls of the small confession cell they were sitting in. “This is hardly better than a gaol, especially with the guards outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, Kit knew, was the more embarrassing admission. “Well, I hadn’t counted on having you as confessor. That does throw my plans into disarray.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your plans?” She asked, and he saw her eyes narrow imperceptibly in suspicion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit sighed. “I can’t very well knock you unconscious and steal your clothes after such a pleasant conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia Clement was a quiet, gentle woman. She was delicate and soft-spoken, with all the angelic presence that suited her claimed profession. But in that moment, she looked startled, and was suddenly pushed to peals of giggles, the sound echoing in the high room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was hard not to smile as well, and Kit allowed himself that much, wryly. She was pretty when she laughed. The pink on her cheeks grew more flushed, and here and there he’d get a flash of straight white teeth, and her shoulders were tensed up under her blonde hair―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia Clement, Kit considered as she laughed, was still as beautiful as ever. In that, at least, she hadn’t changed one bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only he could say the same...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wiped the tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes delicately, then said, “Oh, Mr. Crossford. I think we can arrange something daring for you.” She stood from her chair and went to the smallest cabinet, in one corner of the room, where Kit assumed they kept a few more prayer candles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You believe me?” He asked, softly, scarcely daring to hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She opened the little cabinet. “Of course.” Her blue eyes met his for the briefest moment. “I like to think I’m quite good at reading people. And if you, Mr. Crossford, are lying to me, then I am queen of Orsterra.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>queen of Orsterra, as far as Kit was concerned. There were few women who commanded such simple beauty and grace, combined with the patience and humility of a saint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From within the confines of the cabinet, Lady Ophilia retrieved a folded piece of cloth. It looked to be made of burlap or jute, dreadfully uncomfortable. And within, she found a sliver of metal― an ornamental knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That seems dangerous for you to have in here,” Kit observed. “With me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Few confessors fear that their congregants will murder them,” she remarked. She paused. “Are you sure you do not want me to speak to the bishop? We could put you under the Church’s protection.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was tempting. For the briefest of moments, her offer beckoned, promising warmth and a bath and a bed, and food, real food, not that slop or those scraps he had been eating for weeks now―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he intended to see this to the end. “No,” he murmured, feeling his stomach growl in protestation. “I must persist. I am close.” So close. “There is a meeting tonight― in the Gutter. Big Loper will be there. He likes to show himself once in a while, be the generous god that bestows poison unto his own brand of congregants. I’ve been chasing that appearance for over a month. I need to be there. I have to get him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And after you get him, you’ll return to civilization?” She asked, standing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked at her. “Civilization?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She motioned vaguely to the walls, the ceiling, the pavestone floor, and when she spoke there was good-humoured amusement in her voice. “Yes, Mr. Crossford. Civilization. Good living. Healthy pursuits.” She held back a smile. “I will not help you if you cannot be redeemed from this folly of a course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered how she could be so luminous when she smiled. “I― I suppose―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” she said, promptly. She approached with the burlap cloth and the knife. “Now tell me, how convincing is your acting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been a strong performer, when he was in the troupe, and these last years unraveling evil plots and deeds had made him even better at disguising his motives and intent. Not from Lady Ophilia Clement, though. With her, he felt unmasked, laid bare. “I suppose that depends on what role I must play.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she smiled, her blue eyes were bright. “Why, the dastardly devil, of course.” She handed him the knife. “If you’ll excuse me―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned away from him, and unfastened her cloak. Her gloved fingers went to the clasp at her neck, pulling the cloth over her head, and placing it on her chair delicately. Then, she bent, crossing her arms over her stomach, to pull her white robe over her head in one deft, practised movement, until she stood in her underclothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit Crossford’s mouth went dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” He croaked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned, the white satin undershirt sliding over curves that―Flame burn him― he wasn’t supposed to notice on a favoured cleric of the Church. Her cheeks were a little flushed, but she did not cower. “I will need a change of clothes, later, and there aren’t a hundred ways to smuggle them out the way we’re going.” She pulled the shapeless burlap robe of an acolyte over her head, hiding her form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercifully, Kit reminded himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mercifully </span>
  </em>
  <span>hiding her form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to feel this kind of hunger when so many other needs jostled for attention already, but there you had it. “I see,” he managed to rasp, although he didn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She carefully pulled her white dress back over her head, uncomfortably adjusting it over the burlap. She shimmied a little, as though to make the clothes move better over her, but to no avail, judging by the tiny, adorable scowl on her face. Now that she wore a whole other layer under her robe, she looked larger, less shapely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit Crossford tried to remind himself that was for the best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, she once again fastened the cloak over her shoulders. “Very good,” she said, catching her breath after those unexpected exertions. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’m ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready?” He echoed, uncertainly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She reached him in all of three steps, and her gloved hands went to his arms. She pulled him to his feet, his shackles clinking. “Ready for my first scene,” she said.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The key to acting the victim was simple, Mr. Crossford had explained. When in doubt, scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only, it wasn’t that simple. She couldn’t scream convincingly, because she wasn’t afraid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Ophilia was beginning to realize she was terrible at dissembling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, she kept her eyes wide in her fairest approximation of terror, and her heart </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>racing, but it wasn’t racing for quite the reasons it should have been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay back!” Mr. Crossford was shouting. He, on the other hand, was very convincing. With his arm around her waist and the ceremonial knife at her throat, he looked every bit the possessed wretch. “Take even one step closer, and I’ll slice her pretty neck like a peach.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pretty neck? She distantly hoped he meant it. It was difficult to focus on the moment when all she could feel was his strong arm around her, his hand digging into the fabric of her clothes possessively. It was exhilarating, like watching H’aanit hunt or Tressa barter or Primrose dance. She opened her mouth to scream and add to the dramatics, when she felt Kit Crossford’s mouth lean against her ear. His breath was hot and smelled of cloves, sending a shiver down her spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the benefit of their audience, he slurred, “Now, beautiful, you’re coming with me, nice and slow, aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded, quite tongue-tied. The Knights and the other acolytes looked horrified, helpless. Ophilia, though, felt a growing puddle of warmth in her belly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d called her beautiful. It was a foolish thing to be so delighted about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Crossford pulled her slowly, steadily, towards the great cathedral doors. People stepped out of his way, terror on their faces. Ophilia felt their concern and fright like cold waves against her skin. She’d have to apologize and explain everything later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A Knight Ardante must have stepped too close, because suddenly Kit was pressing the knife harder against her neck, shouting. She actually felt the blade on her skin, and she froze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean it!” He said. His hand on her waist tightened, pulling her close like a shield, and she felt the hardness of him against her back. “Do you think I won’t kill her? Your favoured little Flamebearer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By Ælfric― </span>
  <em>
    <span>Little</span>
  </em>
  <span>? She was hardly little― The knife nicked her neck, and she gasped. The assembly gasped too, and she felt Mr. Crossford’s hold relax instinctively, as though he were startled by his own mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please!” She screamed, to force him back into the moment, into the scene. “Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll follow quietly. Please don’t hurt anyone else!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He regained his senses. When he pulled her out into the rain, though, on the cathedral parvis, his hold was gentler than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But at last, they were outside, breathing the open air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to drag you to one of the side streets,” he murmured in her ear, the snarl on his face at odds with the softness of his voice. “Then I’ll let you go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going with you,” she insisted, trying not to move her lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s too dangerous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stepped on his foot with the heel of her boot, and he grunted. Knights were pouring out of the Cathedral, with Bishop Bartolo in their midst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” he groaned, “but make sure to keep up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded, just a little, and knew he felt the motion against his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they inched to one of the side-streets, rain had plastered her hair to her face and dampened their clothes. She could feel the tiny cut in her neck burning. But Mr. Crossford was gentle, steering her mostly with the arm around her ribcage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wine Street was almost deserted due to the rain, but at last they were out of sight, and Kit released her, grabbing her hand and pulling. “This way,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia followed. Behind them, the Knights were lost in the haze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t know Saintsbridge very well, truth be told. She had explored its main thoroughfares, of course, and she knew the Cathedral district, but the rest― the maze of sewers, passages, and crossings that connected the various quarters together ― was relatively unknown. It was into this labyrinth that Mr. Crossford pulled her, racing down narrow alleys and stairs, under overhangs, through archways, through rivulets of water that ran down her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally stopped to catch their breath, she was thoroughly turned around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were sheltered under an archway, the shadows and haze of rain shielding them from the gaze of onlookers. This was not a quarter she knew. The buildings here were old, the cobblestones worn to a shine. Water pooled between the cobbles, and Ophilia realized she was completely drenched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t mind. The riverlands were a wet place by nature, the seasonal downpours feeding the river of life that irrigated most of western Orsterra. But the last few days had been particularly rainy, such that the river had swollen, its churning torrents flowing grey and murky, washing away old sediment and flooding vast plains downriver ― a nourishing, encouraging process for future harvests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the rain also emptied the streets, cleaned the city. In the grey haze, as they’d made their escape, Saintsbridge had looked pristine, bright, and the puddles in the stone streets were as silver. Flowing between islets of sturdy white stone buildings and under its bridged streets, the river lent the entire city its song, constant and soothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia inhaled deeply and let herself smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was startled out of her thoughts by the gentle hand on her chin. Inhaling sharply, she focused on Kit Crossford’s blue eyes, who through the mess of his disguise ―if disguise it was― were looking at her neck in genuine concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belatedly, she remembered he had nicked her there. Their race had managed to make her forget. Her gloved hand instinctively went to the skin of her neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cut you,” he softly said. His gaze was clearly anguished. “I― Miss Clement, I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice sounded strangled. “It doesn’t hurt,” she said. “Much.” She removed her glove and felt at her neck. When she looked at her fingers, she saw that blood was diluted with rain water. “Just a scratch, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Crossford shook his head. “I didn’t mean to hurt― Please forgive me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled up at him. His kindness felt warm, like the sun was peeking through the clouds. And his sorrow was almost bitter on her tongue. “Please, Mr. Crossford. It was an accident, and my idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seemed surprised to see the honesty in her eyes. She couldn’t blame him. She was a different person today than she had been years ago, when she had first stepped into Saintsbridge. Back then, she had been unsure, weary, heartsick; she had desperately clung to what hope and optimism she could muster, as one clings to a raft in a storm. Her journey had been a journey of faith and necessity, difficult and often terrifying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But back then, she hadn’t been alone. Her seven companions had watched over her, had carried the Flame with her, as it were. And even today, remembering her friends kept her warm and dry. Even now, she looked forward to seeing them again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the meantime, she intended to be strong, to learn from their lessons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Truly,” she said, reaching out to squeeze Mr. Crossford’s hand, “I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at her hand on his with a strange look. Then, he pulled away slightly, peering at her face. “Miss Clement, what are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She retrieved her hand. “I―” She wasn’t sure. “I merely wanted to assure you―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he said, exasperated. “Not― I don’t mind if you touch me. That’s not―” He cleared his throat. “That is, you may touch me as you please. Or, uh… Or not touch me, if you don’t want to. That’s not what I meant.” He shook himself, and droplets flew into every direction. “I mean, why did you insist on following me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Relief flooded her and blood rushed to her cheeks. “Oh, right.” She smiled. “I want to fight crime with you, Mr. Crossford.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did not imagine the look of dismay on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fight… crime?” He echoed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blushed fiercely now, she knew. Her cheeks felt warmer than ever, and it was certainly no thanks to the cold rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re like a hero from a novel,” she said, hastily. “Forced to suffer evil deeds in service of the greater good― sacrificing your comforts and your personal gain in service to all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And,” she added, in the same breath, “if I can help you succeed, it is my duty as a servant of the Sacred Flame to do so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was silent for a long moment, which boded ill. “I…” He inhaled. “I confess I do not exactly perceive myself as you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew that. She could feel the self-doubt and the self-loathing emanating from him like a stormcloud. His attempts at redemption were valiant, though, whether he believed it or not. And foolish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not safe to go alone,” she said, hoping he didn’t hear the pleading in her voice. “Please take me with you.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The Gutter was actually a sewer; one of the larger water-channeling rooms in the underbelly of Saintsbridge, where much of its wretches gathered to seek shelter from the elements and its authorities. Its high vaulted ceiling no doubt dated back to Saintsbridge’s earliest days. In many ways, it looked like the inside of a cathedral. A dirty, mossy, smelly, windowless cathedral, inside which soiled waters coursed through grates in the floor, making the air perpetually damp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over time, it had grown to welcome its own market, a shoddy little tavern, and a gambling house. The people who kept it knew gambling was illegal in Saintsbridge. They just didn’t care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bundle of Ophilia’s robes was grimy in her hands, so Kit had her throw them away in a corner. He knew from her hesitation that she briefly mourned their loss. She’d have to replace them in the morning. The burlap acolyte robe looked uncomfortable, but at least she blended in better with the Gutter’s population than when she was garbed in white. There was that, at least, Kit thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay close,” he said, his hand hovering near her shoulders to steer her. There were a lot of people here, and he didn’t intend to lose her in the crowd. Thieves and assassins, merchants of weapons and poisons, drug-dealers, gamblers, twisted auctioneers, procurers of all vices, from substances to riches to people ― they all coexisted here in relative peace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More people still were coming in and slipping out of the Gutter by other waterways and channels, their boots and shoes sloshing on the muddy floors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit’s hopes for anonymity were dashed the moment he passed by the Hangman’s Cardhouse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi, there’s Grifter!” A voice suddenly called out, and Kit tensed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia turned to look and saw the group of men drinking, sitting around tables made of barrels upon which sputtered fat candles. Kit looked too, and recognized Fat Rem, Drunk Erolt, and Lewd Lenny. Of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s escaped!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cheer rose, and Kit dropped his arm away from Ophilia’s shoulders. There was no escaping this. He raised a hand, and the wretches around them applauded as recognition spread through the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck me, ‘e’s slipperier than my ma’s cunt,” someone cried out, and an eruption of laughter sounded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gods above,” Kit muttered, before Ophilia could say anything, “I should have warned you―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone approached from the Hungover Sleeper, the inn next door. “D’Grifter come back?” There was a chorus of cheers, and then wild-eyed Half-Penny Morge threw his arms up. “D’you ‘ear ‘ow ‘e did it? Fuckin’ kidnapped a cleric of the Flame to make ‘is escape!” And, because Half-Penny Morge could be trusted to count to two: “Shit, Grifter! You even brought her down ‘ere for us?” He smiled toothlessly at Ophilia, and Kit felt something darken his spirits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All eyes turned to Ophilia. Hungrily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s mine,” he said, menacingly, his hand grasping her shoulder tightly. And, for good measure, he pulled her closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For now,” Half-Penny Morge said, licking his lips. Politely, to Ophilia, he said, “Don’t worry, though, dear. When ‘e’s done with you, good boy Morge will take you under ‘is wing, promise. Never spurned a girl what still ‘ad most of ‘er teeth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or any girl what’d ‘ave ‘im,” Lewd Lenny shouted, causing more laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, Kit decided, had been a terrible idea. He was about to march Ophilia right back to the street when she smiled at Half-Penny Morge sweetly. “Thank you, Mr. Morge. Your kindness is most appreciated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morge blinked. A silence fell momentarily over the local crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Half-Penny Morge turned to Kit, eyes wide. “Full ‘undred leaves for ‘er, Grifter. You’ll find takers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off before I gut you like I gutted Filching Harry,” Kit snarled. Half-Penny Morge did not miss the violence in his eyes and scurried off like the whoreson rat that he was. Then, angrily, he took Ophilia by the arm and led her to a barrel, sitting her firmly down on it. “And you,” he said, heart pounding, “sit here and stop talking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have I offended―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span> talking,” he hissed, desperately. “Please.” Then, in a whisper, “I can’t protect you from all of them. Stop being so charming for just </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>moment while I think.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>They called him Grifter. They hailed him as a friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for the first time, Ophilia was impressed by the depth of Kit Crossford’s deception. Looking at him now, with his grim eyes and his unkempt hair and his caved cheeks, he looked nothing like the Kit Crossford she had blushed about years ago. In fact, if she hadn’t known better, if she hadn’t known him, she would have been frightened― or pitying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it was, she was merely mesmerized. The flash of fury in his gaze, the violence of his language― those were acts, too. They had to be. He had made Morge flinch away like a beaten dog with mere words, without even pulling out his knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had he truly gutted another man?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to get you out of here,” Kit said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered. “The solution is obvious. Let’s play into their assumptions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit shot her a look that betrayed his discomfort. “You don’t know what their assumptions are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She remembered Primrose. Sweet, hard, bitter and gentle Primrose. Primrose, who by the campfire enjoyed brushing Ophilia’s hair, running her hands through it idly, like the mother Ophilia never had. Primrose, who could cut a throat with a bloodlust none of the others ever knew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew what these men thought. She knew what fate ‘Grifter’ was assumed to have in store for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They believe that you’ve captured me and intend to whore me out,” Ophilia simply stated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit’s eyes turned to her, a mix of shame and shock flickering through his gaze. “Miss Clement…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that what ‘Grifter’ would do?” She softly asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to let any of them ― anyone― touch you,” he growled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not disillusion them,” she whispered, frowning. “You said tonight was your chance. You need to play your part.” She straightened, all dignity. “And I will play mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kit―” She stopped herself, hoping no one overheard, and pursed her lips. There were eyes on them, hungry eyes. And she did not miss the way they looked at her especially. “You need to curry favour with this man― Big Loper?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not reply, which she took to be assent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you need to show yourself able to handle all sorts of… sordid business?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t deal in women,” Kit muttered. “And Big Loper deals only in poisons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Big Loper is a man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at her strangely. She was trying to keep a worried look on her face, though her tone had gone flat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he answered, frowning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And a night with me may be worth a hundred leaves?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More,” Kit vehemently growled. “Much more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much more?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His expression changed, the worry turning to frustrated irritation. It was like a cloud passing before the sun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned in, menacingly. Watchful eyes observed, mouths commented inaudibly. “In circles like these, Miss Clement, a woman like you would be worth several thousand. A presumed virgin, healthy and beautiful ― there aren’t a hundred of you in a place like this. But you’re the Flamebearer to boot. Eight thousand for your first night.” He looked dangerous now. His eyes were dark, his breath warm, and he loomed ominously, to the point she shrunk away from him a little. “Is that what you want to hear? Do you want to know what depraved value you have in this hell?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words came out in a rush. “So Big Loper would be honoured to receive such a gift?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit froze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, his expression grew shuttered, and he straightened. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kit,” she murmured, tightening her hold on her cleric’s robes, “you need to catch his attention.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I don’t succeed tonight, I’ll get closer over time― I can―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Use </span>
  </em>
  <span>me,” she hissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slammed a hand on the wall next to her ear, and she started, stunned into silence. Eyes flew to them, surprised. Someone made a rude comment about how to treat women ‘proper’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lifted a hand, ran it over his unshaven cheek, and whistles and catcalls began to sound. She didn’t care. “If not tonight, with me, then when? I can defend myself. He won’t lay a finger on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabbed her hand, yanked it away from his face. “I won’t let him.” A flicker of doubt. “You’re certain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pressed her lips together resolutely. A look of reluctance, as far as their audience was concerned. A look of calm acceptance just for Kit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without taking his eyes off of her, Kit’s voice rose, and he called, “Aconita!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From somewhere over his shoulder, a woman’s voice barked, “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit straightened, eyes cold on Ophilia. “I need a room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More catcalls sounded now, and whistles, and firm stomping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got a pallet in the back row,” Aconita said. She was a large woman, with greasy hair and a stained apron. “Extra for the blanket.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This one’s a gift for Loper,” Kit snarled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd made a low sound, and Ophilia glanced around, trying to hide her nervosity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aconita looked Ophilia up and down with a critical eye. For a moment, Ophilia wondered if she’d have the common decency of helping out another woman. But she merely turned to Kit. “The fuck’s this, Grifter? Is that the fuckin’ Flamebearer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another low sound from the crowd as ever more eyes turned to them. Kit straightened, smirked, and said, “Maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now necks were craning to look at her, and Ophilia hoped there’d be no trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aconita spat on the ground. “Sacred Flame have mercy on you, you crazy bastard.” She shrugged. “Right, then, third cell from the right.” She jutted a thumb in the direction of a side waterway. “Got a bed and everything. Not too many bedlice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit retrieved a few leaves from his pocket and flicked them Aconita’s way. Then, grabbing Ophilia by the arm, he led her away.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Kit was not happy. It was in the line of his shoulders, in the grim pull of his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia sat primly on the bed, if it could be called that, trying to look as though she kept to damp underground sewers regularly. She had laced her fingers together and was ignoring the uncomfortable shapeless mattress under her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t quite how she had envisioned spending her evening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she didn’t mind. She told herself that much. This was infinitely more interesting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes slid towards Kit, who had glanced her way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even now, in the damp gloom, with his terrible wretch’s costume, he struck a dashing figure. She wasn’t quite sure how. He managed to look like a cross of all her male companions ― Cyrus’ posture, Olberic’s shoulders, Therion’s facial expressions, and Alfyn’s fidgeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chewed at the inside of his cheek, and finally said, “I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blinked. She had almost begun woolgathering. “Hm? No, do not apologize.” She smiled. “It was my choice. My idea.” Kit was about to protest, but she added, “I was just thinking about my companions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your―” A look of understanding dawned on his face, and he fell silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia smiled, clutching their memory close to her heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her companions. The four men and three women she had traveled with, years ago. The men and women who had fought Galdera after Kit’s hopes had nearly released it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ophilia did not blame him. Even as he looked miserable, she said, “We’re meeting in Bolderfall this year. In a few weeks.” She sighed, grinning. “I was so worried they’d all have exciting stories to tell and that I would have nothing to contribute. But now I will have something to talk about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of Kit’s brows rose slightly, and his tone was disbelieving. “Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged shyly. “I lead possibly the least eventful life of them all. I serve at my sister Lianna’s pleasure, as her emissary.” She looked up at him and clarified. “Lianna is the new archbishop of Flamesgrace. She’s been preparing for that role her whole life.” Ophilia squeezed her fingers together. “I tried to follow in her footsteps. I tried to be content, staying in Flamesgrace and serving the people there, in whatever meager capacity I could.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit smiled ruefully. “But you struggled with the tedium.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled in return. “I had tasted the open roads,” she said, by way of explanation. “Becoming Lianna’s messenger was a compromise. It was Lianna’s idea, too.” She changed her voice slightly, to better imitate Lianna’s tone: “‘Go, see the world!’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit observed her as she sighed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The truth,” she said, “is that I didn’t miss the world. I missed the people I met while exploring it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit nodded, but he said nothing. His eyes fell to the damp floor. He was silent for a long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At length, he said, “I owe much to your kindness, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She studied him, feeling the word settle around her like a weight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kindness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kindness… Ophilia was often praised for it, but she didn’t see it. Concern for others was as visceral to her, as intrinsic, as breathing or sleeping. She could no more choose to care than she could choose to live. Similarly, reading others, understanding them, was one of the things she particularly excelled at. Much as Cyrus could rudely scrutinize outward clues of character and Alfyn could coax the shyest stranger into unraveling their life story, Ophilia’s personal ability had a more vestigial, primitive sense to it. She could instinctively feel ― no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anticipate </span>
  </em>
  <span>what other people were feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit Crossford’s discomfort was hardly muted, but to Ophilia’s keen empathy, he might well have been shouting it from the rooftops. It was in the line of his shoulders, in the tense column of his neck, in the darting way his eyes struggled to find an anchor, in the micromovements pinching his lips, furrowing his brows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew what bothered him, but she wanted to relieve the physical signs of distress all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please do not fear for me,” she said. “When the time comes, we will arrest him together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He observed her silently for a long while. Then, at last, the expression in his blue eyes shifted, ever so slightly ― instinctually, she saw the lowering of his eyelids, the smoothing of his brow, the way his jaw worked side to side, tentatively, as though he were testing his ability to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” He sighed. When he raised his eyes to look at her directly, she was startled by the intensity of his stare. “You cannot know the service you are rendering me. I have come a long way― longer than my confession could possibly have indicated. You’re putting yourself on the line out of faith, and that is not fair to you. If I am to explain my motives in the simplest terms, then perhaps I must begin with the end.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leaned forward, but did not speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It begins at the end, when I parted ways with you and your companions.” He inhaled shakily. “I had gone in search of my father―” His voice faltered. “A quest that ended in a way you know only too well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Graham Crossford. A journal. Redeye. Curses. Blood lineage and the keys to a divine prison. Ophilia repressed a shudder and nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The first year after we parted ways,” he said, “I mourned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood, and her hand reached for his before she could fully think on the matter. Her fingers clutched his wrist, his palm, as comfortingly as she could, willing him to feel her warmth, her sympathy. He observed the gesture with detached surprise, but did not move away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The second year,” he continued, softly, “I traveled. I sailed, walked, rode, and hitched myself from one city to the next, from empire to realm to country, from kingdom to state and to the vast wildernesses beyond. I… I don’t know what I was looking for,” he said, in response to a question she had not asked. “I suppose I was less searching than I was running.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Running from what?” She whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t reply to that. His voice had taken on a distant quality. “The third year was spent in excesses…” He hesitated, then forged onward. “Spending, drinking, chasing― I believe I indulged in every vice under the sun and the moon, Miss Clement.” His blue eyes returned to her with a new sharpness, as though he expected her to react, as though he were bracing for a blow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ophilia had heard it all. She was not a confessor of the Sacred Flame every day, but she had served that purpose often enough to know what manner of earthly mazes could draw a person in. She deliberately did not react, remained serene in the face of his confession.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It explained how he knew what worth her maidenhead would have. She tried not to think on it too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the fourth year?” She asked. What had he been up to these past months, while she longed and roamed from duty to duty?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Kit did look deflated. In the cold light, the shadows seemed to deepen the gauntness of his cheeks. “This past year has been… worse, especially in the beginning.” His hands were trembling a little. He made a fist of his fingers to still their agitation. “While indulging my own self-pity, I came across a miracle substance that allowed me to forget my shame… If only for a few hours at a time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia shut her eyes. Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poisons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d given myself over to oblivion,” he breathed. “Flame forgive me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia sighed. “It grieves me to hear you suffered so. Had I but known…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d have rescued me again?” Kit asked, and now she heard something in his voice she had not heard before. Grim bitterness. “Once was unfortunate enough, Miss Clement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one can live without the aid of others,” Ophilia replied, more firmly than she intended to. Kit was obviously troubled, she knew, but surely he was not completely blind to sense. “There is no shame in needing assistance. There is no shame in refusing it either, but…” She pressed her lips together, mulling over the right thing to say. “But one should never feel ashamed for needing help, especially to combat an age-old god hell-bent on destroying the world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He averted his eyes, licked his lips. “It is a simple truth, nevertheless,” he said, carefully, “that I owe you everything. Indeed, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>world </span>
  </em>
  <span>owes you and your companions everything, though I may be the only one aware of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Crossford, what we did was for us, as well. You seem convinced we ran into the maw of danger out of sheer selflessness.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A lesser man might have called it foolishness,” Kit said, sheepishly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, there was at least a small measure of that,” Ophilia conceded, and now she was laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve had my own share of foolishness, at any rate,” Kit continued. Now his gaze was intense, back to the sheer determination she had seen in the confessor’s cell. “I cleaned up.” He motioned to himself. “Well, mostly. But I stopped trying to escape. And I started hunting those who had brought me so low.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And…” She motioned to the door. “Big Loper…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just another target,” Kit coldly said. “But I’m making my way up the ranks. The other two networks I’ve ruined were mere branches. He’s a root, a threat, a real threat. Every poison, every milliseed of toxic pulp that enters and leaves Saintsbridge does so on his orders. The men and women of the Gutter serve him out of fear. Before his arrival, they were warring amongst themselves, unable to organize, uselessly fighting for scraps and street corners. Once I dispatch him, they’ll go back to in-fighting, and Saintsbridge will fare much better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And where will you go?” She asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “Somewhere no one knows I cut the Flamebearer’s throat.” And he gave her a rueful smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The urge to embrace him was surprising. She ran a hand up his arm, intent on… what, exactly?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter. There was a pounding at the door, and Kit sprung away from the wall, Ophilia wrapped her arms around herself, and they averted their respective gazes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grifter,” the big thug on the other side of the door said. “Loper’s ‘ere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit turned to Ophilia, affecting a glare. She felt the nervousness off him like waves of tension. “Stay here,” he bit out. Then, to the thug, “She’s a gift for Loper. Don’t let anyone near her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thug shot Ophilia a hungry look. His ears had been boxed and looked like cauliflowers, and there was a deep, nasty scar running down the side of his head, like stitches of a wound. But something in his eyes was soft, like a child’s. Too many blows to the skull, Alfyn might have said, or never much sense from birth, if Therion had his word on the matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Kit left, with one last lingering look at Ophilia, and Ophilia smiled at the big thug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My name is Ophilia Clement,” she said. “What’s your name?”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The Gutter was packed with wastrels of all sorts. Kit weaved through the rowdy throng, avoiding broken bottles and gobs of spittle, intent on approaching the stage set in the middle of the sewers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a stage in name only. In practice, the scaffold looked more like gallows, though propped on empty barrels and held up by planks and crates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon the stage stood a man Kit had seen from a distance several times before. He looked healthy― in much better shape than most of his congregants, with the hale air of someone who ate and slept in comfort. His clothes were average, nondescript, which alone was enough to make Kit’s hackles rise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Big Loper was not as big as his name implied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The leader of the poisoners looked down at the throng of people around him with a grim, satisfied smile. He was waiting, content to be seen by all. At his feet was a bag, and Kit knew what the bag contained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good evening!” Loper called out. “How are all of my beloved constituents?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a cheer. It echoed, dark and twisted, in the alcoves of the sewers and catacombs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is good to see you all so well,” Big Loper continued emphatically. “I take it you missed me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More echoes and howling, like a crowd of hungry ghouls. Kit followed along the far wall, watching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’ve been aching. I know the waking is painful.” Big Loper reached for the bag at his feet and there was a collective intake of breath, a collective gasp of anticipation. The air in the room changed instantly, like a slingshot pulled to its limit. “And I know the streams aren’t as plentiful as they used to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shoved his hand in the bag, casting a sorrowful look at the crowd around him. It was good acting, Kit thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I care for you, my Saintsbridge folk. I’ve gone far to find more relief for you. I’ve paid the price, oh yes, I’ve paid it.” He nodded slowly, evidently aware that all eyes were on his bag. “And I’ll need your leaves if there’s to be more―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was interrupted by a spray of coins that flew at his feet. A bony hand was outstretched, uncoordinated, and the wretch it was attached to cried out, “Give us the dream, Loper! I need my dream!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Big Loper chuckled warmly. “Aye, Dregs, I’ve got your dream for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled a handful out of his bag. A handful of teeth, their potent pulp still unconsumed. The crowd was almost salivating. More hands shot up, begging. But Big Loper threw the handful in Dregs’ direction, and there was a mad scramble, cries and shoving in the mêlée.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyone else want their dream?” Big Loper called out, and now more leaves began to rain upon the stage, more hands began to grapple at the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even Kit felt a stir inside, a familiar ache, the familiar pain of wakefulness, eager to be dulled into a colourful haze.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not tonight</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he swore to himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not tonight</span>
  </em>
  <span>, nor any night again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but not tonight for starters</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Miss Clement needed him sober, needed him awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he watched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched as Big Loper became a god under the veneration and adoration of his assembly of wretches. He watched as Drunk Erolt elbowed a man in the nose, knocking him to the floor with a flower of blood on his face, and watched as the man was trampled underfoot. He watched as Aconita took five milliseeds in one go, eyes revulsing into her skull, the only sign that she still lived becoming the twitching of her fingers. And the leaves continued to rain, and Big Loper still threw most fistfuls of teeth into the crowd, rejoicing like a saviour amongst the damned, a shepherd amongst the sheep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the howling of the crowd quieted somewhat and Big Loper’s people set about collecting the leaves with fist and foot, the poisoner’s gaze caught Kit’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one sure bound, the man was off the stage, striding towards him. “Grifter, I presume,” he warmly said. A significant look at the groaning crowd, who was now generally under the effect of his drugs, gone on a voyage that would last hours for some, and weeks for others. “Didn’t feel the pull of the dream?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not tonight,” Kit replied, voice hoarse. He licked his lips, and Big Loper shot him a look that might have been sympathy. Or amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Big Loper continued. He scratched at his unkempt beard, and cast a look back to ensure his thugs were emptying enough pockets. Satisfied, he turned back to Kit. “Heard you kept a steady supply going in town while I was away on business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit had, but only out of necessity, and with only half-hearted effort. “I did what I could.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lewd Lenny says you’ve dabbled in other pursuits, too. The gamblers, the traffickers, the footpads. But you’ve got a real knack for the poisoners, I’m told. And best of all, you’re not keen on overdosing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence was suited best here. Kit kept his mouth shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Big Loper seemed satisfied with whatever he saw. He clapped a hand on Kit’s shoulder. “A man who doesn’t partake of his own wares is a man I can work with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit smiled, trying to make himself look as humble as he could. “Y’honour me, Loper. I’ve got nothing but admiration for you.” He shifted his weight, made himself hesitant. “Even got you a gift.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Big Loper laughed heartily, the sound almost fatherly. But there was a hunger in his eyes, a keen greed that Kit recognized only too well. “A gift― aye, Lewd Lenny mentioned that. A woman. Beautiful and fresh-looking.” He leaned forward, eyebrows lifting significantly. “An important woman, I heard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Flamebearer herself,” Kit said, against the roiling of his stomach. Then, because he hadn’t done enough of a job disgusting himself, he added, just as significantly, “Unspoiled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now there was no mistaking the greed in Big Loper’s eyes. “Unspoiled?” He pulled away, looking at Kit with newfound respect. “That takes some self-control, Grifter. More than I would have expected from you. Not many of our treasures of the flesh make it down into the Gutter unspoiled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shiver of disgust and loathing crawled up Kit’s back. “She’s yours,” he managed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Big Loper was silent for a moment. His eyes went back to his thugs, studying the way his coffers were filling. Then, apparently satisfied, he turned back to Kit and said, “Let’s see her, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sinker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was the crucial part, Kit knew. He had to keep the act up until the trap had sprung, until the door was closed and Big Loper could no longer call for help. If he looked nervous or tense now, the man would guess the game and it would all be over before he could do anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He led the poisoner down the sewers, towards Ophilia’s cell. She had told him it was alright, he kept reminding himself. She had said he could take the minutes necessary to chase the guards away, if there were any. She had promised him she could defend herself, that the Flame watched over her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he didn’t like it anyhow. All he wanted to do was turn around and strangle the man, whose hunger was growing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard she just turned twenty-four,” Big Loper was saying as they walked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She doesn’t look a day over twenty winters,” Kit said, a ball of self-hatred churning inside his stomach when he saw the smirk on Big Loper’s face. The poisoner was easily twice her age, still in good health, but old enough to have fathered her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s so rare for them to make it to that age untouched,” he said. He was practically rubbing his hands together now. “Don’t worry. I’ll show her a good time.” Then, as an afterthought, “You can have a go at her after I’m done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Before we give her a steel fin?” Kit said, coolly. It was the rage speaking now, but it made him sound nonchalant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye. Shame about the steel fin, but the fewer people share her, the less disease spreads around, and we can’t afford to have her go anywhere, let alone escape.” Big Loper chuckled warmly to himself. “Imagine having the full wrath of the Church bear down on us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Church wouldn’t have time to get him, Kit swore. Ælfric himself would not be swift enough. Big Loper would be unrecognizable when he was done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they reached the cell, Kit saw Ophilia had curled up on the cot, in her best impression of a frightened girl. It was effective. It made him halt, and he fought the urge to race to her side, to comfort her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when she lifted her face to look at them, her eyes were sharp. She never did learn how to lie with her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Big Loper,” she said, softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Big Loper looked delighted that his reputation had preceded him. He turned to glance appreciatively at Kit, then back to Ophilia. “Lady Flamebearer. I am humbled by your presence in my…” He gestured around them. “In my home, as it were.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A fitting place for a man like you,” she said. Kit was impressed by her nerve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile crept over Big Loper’s face, twisted and humourless. “Oh, Miss. It warms the cockles of my heart to see you still so fiery. I’ll cure you of that habit, I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Mr. Loper,” she said, in kind. “I very much doubt it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, then, Kit saw stars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbled forward, clutching at the back of his head, and groaned. The next thing he knew, Ophilia’s voice was sounding, somewhere over him― “No, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Grieg, I told you―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He faltered, falling to his knees on the wet floor. There was a scuffle around him, but he could not make sense of up or down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were muffled sounds of pain, and then a flash of blinding light― and suddenly his vision cleared, as though he’d simply been underwater and surfaced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia’s face danced in front of his, white magic fading away somewhat from her hands. “Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked. “What in the world―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind her, the big thug, the one he’d assigned as a guard, was pounding Big Loper into the wall. Kit blinked again, confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought he worked </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span> Big Loper―” Kit said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia smiled, all white teeth and bright eyes. “I can be very convincing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was beginning to understand that much. He pushed himself to his knees, then grabbed her face. “Are you hurt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kissed her, quickly, hard, then pulled away and stood. Big Loper was a pulpy mess, his face a red smear. “I need him alive―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia stood and strode forward. “Grieg, stop punching.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wonders of wonders, the big thug stopped. Big Loper slid down the wall, groaning. Then, before he could muster the strength to scream for help or murder, Kit shoved a fistful of blanket into his bloodied mouth. A tooth fell out, and Big Loper whined pitifully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t typically advocate for violence,” Ophilia said. “But his voice carried down the hallway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit winced. “Oh.” Then she’d heard everything. Shame took him. “I― I’m sorry―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she said, brightly, reaching for his arm. “You played your part wonderfully. I never could have baited him alone.” She shot him a gentle look. “You did what had to be done.” She straightened, lifting her chin. “Grieg,” she said imperiously, “would you be so kind as to carry him, please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am,” the big thug dumbly said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The way should be clear for the next few minutes,” Kit said, checking outside the door. “Practically everyone in the Gutter is under the effect of pulp right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Ophilia said, and her eyes were bright. She smiled up at him as though he’d hung the moon. “I propose we get out of here.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>It was several hours before Ophilia saw Kit again. In fact, by the time she was done seeing to all the formalities of her return and the incarceration of Saintsbridge’s most dangerous poisoner, including the formal pardon of one Grieg Hamsfeldt and explaining what had transpired to Bishop Bartolo and several stunned knights of the Flame, the cathedral fires burned low and the bells were sounded twice, calling the matins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Cathedral was never fully darkened― the Sacred Flame at the Altar burned bright by day and night, and there were countless candles and sconces keeping the dark at bay. But it was quiet, with an echoing emptiness that felt both haunting and comforting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She clutched the parchment in her hand tightly, vowing to deliver it in person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The infirmary was mostly empty. One of the monastic carers was transcribing medical notes by candlelight, and he hardly spared a glance for her. She passed by him, following the long corridor of individual cells where laymen and laywomen were expected to spend their nights, if only to keep from disturbing the clergy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were only a few people here now. The spring rains had brought with them fresher food, aiding in the recovery from lesser illnesses. Ophilia saw the open doors of many empty cells and felt gratitude suffuse her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door at the end of the hallway was shut, faint light filtering from under it. She knocked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pushed at the latch, gently opening the door, and candlelight poured out, and she shut it behind her when she entered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room was by no means grand or elegant― its unadorned, vaulted ceiling was much like that of all its neighbouring cells, and a single narrow window on its far wall, with leaded glass so thick it distorted the view of the outside, was so close to the ceiling the only way one could look through was to stand on a chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the furnishings were simple ― a plain bed, a single chair and table, and a chest of drawers upon which a three-pronged candlestick sat, casting a warm glow. There were other candles around, and a single brazier in the corner of the room by the washbasin…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia froze in her tracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it was the lighting, and the way it made dancing shadows flicker on the walls. Perhaps it was the warmth, and the way it infused her from her toes all the way to the base of her neck, climbing slowly to her face and the very roots of her hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that was one magnificent expanse of muscled back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit Crossford ran a towel over his neck and jaw, drying and wiping what remained of the shaving soap, then turned. And Ophilia found herself speechless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had shaved and cleaned, and now she could see the line of his jaw, the permanent blue of his eyes, the sensuous curve of his lips, the blondness of his hair. He had brushed it, removed all grime, and for the first time since their reunion, he looked like the man she had met four years ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. He looked like more. How old was he now? Twenty-seven? Even with the thinned frame, he looked more like a man than a boy; in those intervening years, he’d lost something of his youthful innocence and gained a sharpness, a strength of character that he hadn’t had before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His front was even nicer than his back. Perhaps she had been wrong to think him gaunt. He was thin ― not at all large and square as Sir Olberic had been, nor again tall and almost willowy, like Professor Cyrus. His frame reminded her more of a cross between Alfyn and Therion: lithe and unassuming, with no fat or unseemly bulk to speak of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes followed a pale trail of hair from his chest to the waistband of his trousers before she could stop herself. Then, her gaze snapped back to his face, startled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I― Forgive me,” she breathed. “I thought you’d be dressed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit seemed just as surprised to see her there as she was to find him half-clothed. “I...” He cast about himself for something to wear, but saw only the rags he’d come in with. “I apologize, I was― I expected someone with robes or...” He sighed and reached up to run his hand through his long hair. “It seems I make a habit of poor appearances with you, Miss Clement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is nothing about your appearance that is poor,” she said. She clapped a hand to her mouth in surprise at her own daring. “That is― you have nothing to apologize for,” she finally managed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He peered at her with something like amusement, and heat once again flooded her, the memory of his lips, pressing hard against hers only hours before, resurfacing. It had been a thank you kiss, she reasoned. The sort of kiss that meant relief rather than love. But she remembered his lips, the scratch of his unkempt beard… and wondered if it would feel different now that he’d shaved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...” Her breathing was shallow. She bit her lip and approached to hand him the parchment. “I have your pardon here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took the parchment gently, almost reverently, but did not unfurl it. His blue eyes were piercing on hers. “Thank you.” He looked down at their hands, then back at her. “I owe you for this.” His lips pulled up with an ironic, sad little smile. “My list of debts grows ever longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You owe me nothing,” she firmly said. “If it hadn’t been for your self-sacrificing efforts, Saintsbridge’s poorest and most wretched would still be in the thrall of a dangerous poisoner.” She took his hand, and willed the warmth of the Sacred Flame’s guiding light to show him the truth. “Thanks to you, those who were poisoned this night will be cared for. Perhaps even rescued from their need for escapism.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down at her with a strange look, something that was still sorrowful and opaque. Then, he sighed, the exhale fanning against her cheeks. “Miss Clement,” he said, his voice low and raspy, “that is not something anyone can achieve. They must make that choice alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When had he grown so melancholy? Had he always been like this? “Mr. Crossford,” she insisted ―Primrose had always teased her about her ‘blind’ optimism―, “no one ever need be alone.” And she squeezed his fingers. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>’re not alone. I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His free hand came to her cheek, and her breath hitched. She felt the pad of his thumb rub softly against her cheekbone, so gently. His gaze, too, was soft, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest at the sight of it. When he spoke, his voice was a murmur. “You shouldn’t be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That much, she knew, was true. It was not usual or appropriate for clergywomen to spend any prolonged period of time in a layman’s cell, especially when said layman was so attractively undressed. “I wanted to deliver your pardon myself,” she whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His thumb went to her lips, and she felt him press ever so gently. She felt her lips part. His eyes were dark in the candlelight. “And why is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Sacred Flame was inside of her now, burning like a torch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whispered words came tumbling out of her mouth before she could even think to reconsider them. “Because I want you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a second, Kit Crossford, handsome, tired, thin, anguished Kit Crossford, seemed to be made of marble. He was so still, Ophilia wondered if she’d said the wrong thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was about to pull away and apologize when a whoosh of air came out of his nose and a muscle leaped in his jaw. Suddenly, both his hands framed her face. He leaned forward, kissing her soundly, so soundly she nearly lost her balance. Joy bubbled inside of her like a fountain. It exploded in her chest, and she couldn’t suppress a delighted smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His arm was there, snaking around her waist, as his other hand tilted her chin up towards him, pulling her like the tide― </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he kissed like he was parched and she was water, like he was drowning and she was air, like he was freezing and she was fire. He kissed hungrily, desperately, his mouth soft and smooth, gentle and unyielding, moving on her lips like a devastating force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia realized belatedly that her hands were in his hair, on his shoulders, against his chest. She also realized belatedly that he was warm, that his skin was burning under her fingers, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>was burning up inside, that it seemed there was no room in her lungs for her breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He parted her lips with his tongue, and she let him, her mind adrift, awash in a flood of new sensations and raw, unbridled joy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now she understood what all the fuss was about. She’d never tried this before, but there it was. Now she saw why so many sonnets were written about kisses, and why Primrose, who’d had such a hard life, still couldn’t seem to summon disgust for all this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled away, panting, and pressed his forehead against hers. His breathing was laboured, and she was pleased to see he was not about to let her go. “Sorry,” he finally rasped. Then, he frowned, shook his head. “No,” he said again, pressing a new, gentle kiss to her lips, “never mind. I’m not sorry. I’ve wanted to do that since― I’m not sure. A long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia’s heart was racing, soaring. “Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at her, his forehead still pressed against hers, and his eyes grew sad once more. “Yes. I’ll never be worthy, but that never kept me from...” He sighed. “Dreaming, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a dream,” she said contentedly, her hands roaming on his shoulders, then down the front of his chest. He was firm under her fingers. “I―” She felt herself blush, but forged onwards. Primrose and Tressa and H’aanit had all been so much more straightforward and blunt. Maybe they’d understood something she didn’t. “I’m glad my first kiss was from you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This did not have the effect she expected. Instead of smiling and kissing her more, which was the whole point, Kit pulled away, looking horrified. “Wait. I’m― I’m your― That was your </span>
  <em>
    <span>first</span>
  </em>
  <span> kiss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The horror on his face surprised her. And it stung. A sudden flush of embarrassment came over her. She had always known she was inexperienced, but this... She braced herself, rubbing her arms. “I… Yes?” At Kit’s wide-eyed horror, she hastily added, “Forgive me, I thought you knew… But surely it’s not a problem―? I suppose perhaps I lack experience. I apologize if my kisses were clumsy. I hadn’t thought― I didn’t know― I couldn’t have known, I’ve never practised―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Practised?” Kit echoed, blinking. He was suddenly confused. “Miss Clement, I’m not upset with you for your kissing methods. Rest assured you are a very... convincing kisser.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His obvious discomfort was almost comical. Ophilia shifted her weight, smiling up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My problem,” Kit said, and Ophilia’s smile faded, “is that you did not warn me. I― I could have made it…” He groaned. “Better. Alright? Better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a kind sentiment, and she wondered just how he could have made the experience better. She was close to melting already. “It was rather spectacular already,” she said, grinning. “I think I could go on kissing until dawn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit’s eyes studied her, darting over her face, astonished. Then, as though it cost him every last ounce of physical strength he had, he took a step back, inhaling deeply, and a pinched smile pulled at his lips. “Miss Clement, you really should go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt her heart fall from the soaring heights it had risen to, all the way to her feet. “Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was trembling. Shame came upon her like a tidal wave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was he― did he think less of her for throwing herself at him? Did he think she was sullying the Order of the Sacred Flame? Or did he not want to kiss her anymore?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ælfric above, had she overdone it? She always had been rather… zealous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gathered the tattered remains of her self-worth like a cloak around her. “I see,” she managed, throatily. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “I’m―” Her voice failed. When she managed to speak again, her voice was soft, nearly a whisper. “I hope you won’t think less of me for my actions, Mr. Crossford.” Then, without looking at him, she turned. “Good night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit’s hand was at her wrist, and when she glanced at him, he was shaking his head, looking to the ceiling as though he sought some sort of guidance. “Ophilia,” he breathed, imploringly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t the first time he’d said her name, but this particular rendition sent shivers of longing down her spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He released her hand, but did not step back. “I’m sending you away because the more you smile at me and beckon me with kisses, the more likely I am to tumble you into bed and ravish you. And if I just took your first kiss, then I have no doubt I’d take your first everything. You deserve better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could words cause such elation and fury at once? She wheeled on him, frowning. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Better</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” She echoed, flatly. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Better </span>
  </em>
  <span>than a man so gentle and kind, so self-sacrificing, so hard on himself, so compassionate, so caring, thoughtful and upright? Better than a man whose love made him nearly give his life in hopes of rejoining his father? Better than the determined, boneheaded, generally wonderful man I’ve spent the past four years daydreaming about?” She was poking his bare chest with a finger now. “I’ve had it up to </span>
  <em>
    <span>here </span>
  </em>
  <span>with your self-pitying, Mr. Crossford. If you don’t want me because I’m too forward, or not to your liking, or otherwise unattractive, that’s one thing. But do not burden both of us with your sense of morality― that’s my job.” She crossed her arms haughtily, emulating Tressa at her most petulant. “Now are you going to stop wallowing and touch me again, or will I have to scold you some more?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Clement,” Kit said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ophilia</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ophilia</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Kit conceded. “Do you make a habit of tempting men towards the thirteen hells?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Crossford―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paused. His name felt right on her lips, but it felt intimate to use it now. “Kit,” she nevertheless breathed. “I shall take your very rude accusation as a compliment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes were dark. “My accusations pale in comparison to my plans for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not afraid,” she said. Although she was, a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head slowly, but she could see he wasn’t saying no. Instead, he seemed incredulous. His voice was low. “I’ve had dreams about this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So had she. “How do they typically begin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached for her slowly, intently. “Like this.” And then he pressed his lips against hers all over again.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>At some point in a past life, Kit decided, he’d done something grand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the only explanation for what he was experiencing now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How else but with divine recompense could he explain the way Ophilia’s breath hitched when he ran his hands over her clothed back, or the softness of her fingers in his hair, or the delightful little gasps she made when he kissed her?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And kissing Ophilia Clement was definitely some sort of elevated reward. She was beautiful in the candlelight. After so many kisses her lips had swollen, her hair was mussed, and still she managed to look like some angel, some divine messenger come to take him out of his years of self-induced torment. There was, in his esteemed opinion, no other explanation than heavenly salvation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for the fact that the way she now touched him, her fingers lightly skipping over his chest and shoulders, had everything to do with sin. And curse him for a fool, he wasn’t going to stop her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I liked you from the start,” she murmured, eyes fixed on his chest with the fascination of someone who’d never seen a man from this close before. And, Kit reminded himself, she hadn’t. Not really. “When we found you on the road and you joined that traveling troupe― I always thought you so sensible and noble…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t thinking noble thoughts right now. Her fingers were slow agony, featherlight and soft, and Kit hadn’t been touched like this in a while, certainly not so gently and reverently. He’d grown to think himself unworthy of that sort of respect. “I couldn’t get you out of my head either. I’d find myself wooing the ingénue onstage and pretending she was you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She let out an unladylike little snort, and her blue eyes lifted to meet his. “I was sure you preferred Primrose.” The light in her eyes dimmed a little. “Men prefer Prim.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kissed her again. He wasn’t interested in talking about the dancer. “I only remember her because she stood with you.” Her hair was soft and looked like pale gold. He ran his fingers through it, grateful that she let him. “Galdera take me, you’re so beautiful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a flush on her cheeks, and she lowered her eyelids. He kissed her again, and again, and again ― on those cheeks, on her forehead, down the line of her chin, right behind her ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he pulled away, she was breathless, and Kit realized they were pressed against the wall. Her chest was rising and falling in a distinctly appealing way, and Kit felt a surge of devilish satisfaction that this was his doing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really should stop me,” he muttered, hoping she wouldn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She straightened, shifted her weight, then pouted a little. “But I don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fine, he wasn’t going to argue. He went back in for another kiss, then lower, to pull her collarline aside and rake his teeth on the sensitive skin of her collarbone. She shivered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I quite loathe to interrupt with questions,” she said, “but I confess―” She paused and giggled at her own little joke, “―I confess I have no idea what I’m doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gods of all the heavens, devils of all the hells― she was adorable. Quite literally worthy of adoration. “We need not do anything you don’t want to do,” he murmured. And, in that moment, he meant it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then she was running her hands over his shoulders and he knew his resilience would be tested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her brow furrowed. “You tense up every time I touch you,” she observed. “Am I doing something wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He exhaled slowly. “No. I like when you touch me.” It just eroded at the reserves of strength he kept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now her hand was flat against his chest, over his heart. And then her finger began to trail down the line of his stomach, down. Her cheeks were pink, but she was bold. Bolder than he’d expected. “This isn’t fair for you, is it?” She asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair?” He grunted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stepped away from him and began to remove her clothes, one by one. First the cloak, which exposed her pale shoulders. Then, she bent to remove her boots, neatly placing them side by side, out of the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, she did what he still couldn’t take out of his mind― pulling her robe over her head in one smooth motion, revealing her silken sheath underclothes. In the candlelight, she looked almost otherworldly, the hem of her clothes high on her thighs, so that her long legs were perfectly displayed. And under the fabric, the merest hint of her breasts―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit realized belatedly that his throat was dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled at him nervously. “I’m sure you’ll agree this is much fairer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gods preserve him. He made a choked croaking sound, and that prompted a laugh from her that immediately lightened the mood.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Intimacy was its own poison, Ophilia decided. A heady, delightful poison, the sort that made one’s head spin and heart race. But the look of dark adoration in Kit’s eyes made her feel brave, daring, as she had never been before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit’s fingers were gentle when he lifted her sheath over her head. He was deliberate as he removed his trousers, and suddenly they were naked before one another, and Ophilia forced herself to look at him completely, willing herself not to flush or avert her gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He broke the long silence first. “Gods, Ophilia. You’re beautiful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had no experience of naked men, and so could not compare him or make similar statements without feeling disingenuous. But the sight of him made her heart pound in her chest, all golden skin and wiry muscle, and she was certain she wanted him. “May I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded. She approached, certain she could feel the heat he radiated. Her hands went to his arms, his shoulders, his long hair, then down to his chest, his stomach, and― she paused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia knew male anatomy. In theory. She knew that the male organ was supposed to be erect and hard when they were aroused. But knowing it and seeing it were… distinctly different. There had been no mention in the simplified illustrations of her textbooks that they could bob with each heartbeat, or that they could seem so… angry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it hurt?” She breathed, before she could have the wherewithal to stop herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question startled Kit and he chuckled, a deep sound that came from inside his chest. She felt it vibrate under her palms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he finally replied, after the chuckles subsided. His eyes were crinkled at the corners in warmth and benevolence, and she believed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And it won’t hurt if I touch―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will flinch,” he said, smiling. “You’re very pretty, and you will soon find out that inside every man is a green boy who is continually amazed at his wondrous luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did flinch when she grazed him with her fingers, but it was accompanied by a smile, and when she stepped in closer, his hands went to her bare waist, and she understood why he’d flinched. The raw feeling of a stranger’s hands on her bare skin was new, exciting, wonderful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you saying you want to touch me?” She whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes lifted to hers, and something in them became dangerous, somewhat like his Grifter character ― daring and amused. “You cannot blame me for being tempted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where would you touch me?” She asked. Her hand closed around his erection, gently, and a low sound growled in his throat, unbidden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now his hands were on her breasts, and then he was pulling her closer with one hand on her― She gasped, the feeling of his warm hands and firm body against her naked skin almost overwhelming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lost several minutes to that sensation― the feeling of his lips, his hands, his body. She felt safe here, safe and beautiful and wanted. He kissed her gently still, but there was a rising urgency in his touch, a fever of want that burned like a brand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she regained some of her senses, she realized they’d fallen onto the bed, with him holding her over him, his hands on her thighs. She was straddling him, surprised at the need that drove her. His erection under her was insistent; it would tense now and then, poking at her arse, her thighs, and that intimate part of her that was too warm―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he broke for air, he was panting. “Gods above, Ophilia…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should we stop?” She asked, concerned. He seemed to be in pain, and her heart squeezed at the sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if you want to,” he breathed. His hands were firm on her legs, on her thighs. He was looking up at her, at her breasts where they hung in front of his face, and she saw wonderment in his eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was dead and ascended.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” She shifted her weight, straddling him more comfortably, and he hissed, his erection coming to rest against her arse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He followed the hiss with a hoarse laugh. “I’m trying very hard to be gentlemanly. You’re making it very difficult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wouldn’t know about that. Looking down at him, she was pleased to see he was still just as handsome as she’d long imagined. In the candlelight, his skin seemed golden, matching his blonde hair, and there was at last something of his past innocence and warmth in him. He looked like a sun god, a pagan incarnation of the Flame itself. She ran a palm over his chest. “You’re very handsome,” she shyly admitted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, fervently, but she could feel by the insistence pressing against her buttocks that he desperately craved― she knew what he craved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think that all depends on how long you intend on staying here,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked. For a moment, the haze of desire lifted, and he looked up at her with confusion. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was embarrassed― she shifted her weight a little, averted her eyes. “That is… If you will still want me in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t fair to ask, she knew. It was a stark interruption, a needle in the bubble, and it invited desperate, hungry lies… Yet she knew he wouldn’t lie. She knew he’d tell her the truth. Or, at least, she knew she would see the truth, no matter what he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit’s eyes were dark and hungry, but when he spoke, he spoke plain: “If you will have me that long, I would keep you until the Great Dark.” His hand came up to her cheek, gentle, barely brushing against her skin, but burning a path all the same. “I wanted you when I first saw you, and I felt like a monster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words stirred something inside her, something hot, something kind. It squeezed around her heart, and Ophilia felt her throat close with emotion. “A monster? Why?” She managed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was smiling. There was no more self-loathing in him. “You’re so pure― so good.” His hips bucked lightly under her, and she caught herself by pushing against his chest, startled into a laugh. “And I am not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re only human,” she murmured, smiling down at him. “Both of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” he said, chuckling. “Let’s pretend you’re not an angel. Your secret is safe with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you will have me, then,” she said, “let’s not rush into this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes darted down, pausing at her breasts before going to the place where she sat on his lower stomach. There was a question in his eyes. “Are you…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pure and good?” She asked, archly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was going to say nervous, but―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shifted, bringing his erection to rub along her folds. “I’m aware this may hurt,” she said. “I am rather well-read.” But she was slick with want, her heart was pounding, and the sensation of him so close and intimate was a delightful pleasure that gently lapped upwards along her body. “Perhaps we can set our goal for tonight to…” she flushed. “Something simple.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned his head back against the mattress. “Whatever you wish is what we will do.” Then, cheekily, he crossed his arms behind his head. “Think of me as your eternal servant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she thought, flushing. She knew that he was mostly joking, but the notion was… erotic. More than she had expected. Her lower lips were growing hot, wet― “In that case,” she asked, “may I…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t move, merely smiled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raised her hips over him, trying to maneuver to descend slowly on top of his erection. It was more difficult than she had expected ― she was accustomed to fingers, not… not this. After a moment, he reached down to help, and she inched down ever so slightly on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she thought, when a single inch had made it in. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alright, this isn’t so bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, the second inch pushed in, and the pain began. She eased up once more, breathing raggedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” Kit said, softly. His hand was on her thigh, warm and caressing. She swallowed hard, so his voice grew more firm: “Ophilia, look at me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did, nervously. Kit’s eyes were blue, so blue, and darkened with desire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Start with the beginning,” he said. “Just a little at a time. If it starts to hurt, that’s where we’ll stop.” He pushed himself on his elbows, pulling her down to press a bruising kiss to her lips that stole her breath away. Then, against her lips, he panted, “I am a grown man― I can handle myself. Tonight, we’re going to make you taste pleasure first, slow and quiet, until you fall asleep. And tomorrow, we’ll do it again. We’ll keep going, inching forward every day, until you begin to beg for the full, hard length of my cock all on your own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was panting too, his words and the gentle rocking of his hips against her core so delicious it made waves of heat throb upwards. “Did you learn to talk like that during your travels?” She whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” he grunted. Then, he raised a single blond brow. “Too much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she murmured. “Just right.” And she inched down on him again― and this time she made it a little further, perhaps another half-inch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned his head back, mouth falling open and eyes falling shut. “Oh, I know what I just said, but this is going to be the sweetest torture.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughed breathlessly. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>torture― delicious, wonderful torture. If she was to take more of him, she needed to make him slick, needed him to be… to be as wet as she was. “May I put more weight on you?” She asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded, and she braced against his chest to push with more ease. Her hips knew the rocking motion she wanted, but there was the constant problem of the pain every time she tried to come back down. Still, he was growing wet where she covered him, and she could go slow― very slow― one tiny bit of progress at a time, and now and then she would pause, glide him over her folds, then try again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit caught on to what she was doing after the third little thrust, and his hands went to her hips to help steady her. His eyes were heavy-lidded, hungry. But he did not push up, did not press her. She was unbelievably grateful to him for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, the pain came― low and burning, like a tear, but she was progressing so well, she kept going, inching down on him, then moving back up completely, then sliding carefully back down, always reaching a little bit further every time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re in pain…” Kit started, when he saw the furrow of her brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quiet,” she breathed, intent on her task, focusing on the foreign, surprisingly good sensation of stretching around him. He chuckled so low it was merely a rumble under her hands where she braced, but that did not matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gods, Ophilia,” he groaned when she made it halfway down his cock. His fingers were digging into the skin of her thighs. His stomach was hard with tension. And still he did not thrust, did not urge her onwards. He had the patience of a saint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be brave, Mr. Crossford,” she laughed breathlessly. Every movement was growing smoother. Now that the pain was there, she found it only hurt near the entrance, and everything beyond that was much easier. “We may yet lose my virginity tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a joke, but Kit’s eyes were very dark when he looked up at her. “I think that’s already a done thing, Miss Clement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paused, looking down at him, and realized he was right. There was no going back from this― “I hope you’re not too tired yet. I was promised great things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile was dark now, and for a moment he reminded her of his darker characters, his villainous actor’s streak. “Oh, Ophilia.” He pushed up, bending upwards to kiss her, and she gasped as he stole her breath. His teeth pulled at her lower lip, his tongue laving over hers. When he pulled away, she was breathless. “I always keep my promises.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she regained her senses, she realized she’d slid down fully onto him. They both noticed at the same time, and Ophilia blinked at the joining of their bodies, mesmerized.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” she said, faintly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit didn’t move ― he was watching her. She adjusted her hips, this way, then that, easing around a fading discomfort, and she felt his body thrum. But he wasn’t pushing. He was letting her discover for herself. She was going to kiss him again for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t unpleasant, is it?” She asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he spoke, his voice was strained, but there was amusement in it too: “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt her body stretch around him, making room, learning to move with him there. And she pressed down a little, rubbing her clit against the hard plane of his stomach, experimentally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The jolt of pleasure that shot up her body was so intense, she moaned out a little whimper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, she clapped a hand to her mouth, sharp embarrassment flushing her cheeks, and she darted a look at Kit to see if he’d noticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had. His smile was like that of a very delighted cait. When he spoke, his voice was deep: “At last, we understand one another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, Ælfric. She hardly had the sense to feel shame anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kit’s hand went to the place where their bodies met, and his thumb found― oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gods</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bucked against him, another jolt of pleasure rising like lightning, and once again a gasp, a moan. So he continued, and the sensations grew in her lower belly, building and delightful. She clenched around him, quite against her will, grasping desperately for some sort of hold, some sort of anchor, but he was unrelenting. The pad of his thumb was gentle, but it pressed, then pushed against her labia, then again returned to caress―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gasped out his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was looking up at her as though her pleasure was his, as though every gasp she breathed was its own reward. She could hardly look at him at all― it was― she was―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kit― </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pleasure climbed so suddenly she found herself cresting ever higher waves, rocking against his thumb, feeling his heavy cock inside of her, stretching her, filling her―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, again, again. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Kit</span>
  </em>
  <span>―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be a good girl,” he rasped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She whimpered, but it was too late. The orgasm slammed into her upward from his thumb, through her insides and all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes, hot and throbbing, and she felt herself clench around him, again, again, eyes blind and ears deaf, the pleasure so strong she feared she would crumble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she regained her senses, many long, gasping moments later, she realized she had fallen against him, his erection still buried deep inside of her. He was breathing hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” she managed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he agreed, and she felt his laughter inside his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lifted herself up weakly and asked, fervently: “Can we go again?”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“Are you sure I can let you go off on your own?” Kit asked. He was adjusting his gloves as he followed her to the cathedral’s stables. The rain had finally let up, and the road ahead would be far more pleasant for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s only a few days,” Ophilia said, appeasingly. “Once I reach my friends in Bolderfall, I’ll be safe as a kitten in a basket.” She eyed him, amused. “I’m more worried about you.” She turned from checking the bridle of her horse and looked at him. In his fine clothes, he looked completely different. He looked respectable. Handsome. She almost thought he looked like a fine prince. “What if you run into more trouble on the way to Flamesgrace?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think my days of trouble are over,” he said, with patient confidence. He took her hand in his gloved one and kissed her knuckles. Then, worriedly, “Are you sure your sister will give me her blessing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia lifted her fingers from between his to cradle his face, smiling. “You worry too much. Once you give her my letter, she will give you an inquirer’s job, absolve you of all your sins and let you court any cleric you wish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want just any cleric,” he said. His eyes had darkened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A familiar flame lit low in her belly. “Then we are agreed,” she said. She pushed to her toes and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. “I will find you there, Kit. Don’t worry about me. I’ll see my friends, and then I will find you, and we can pick up where we left off this morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You realize,” Kit said, at her raised brow and look of bright-eyed amusement, “that I need to ride all day, and teasing me will only make the experience painful?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia had never felt so impish. It was a fun feeling. “I’ll make it up to you, then.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “However you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groaned. “That is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>helping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ophilia grinned. “Well, be sure to collect yourself quickly.” She finished securing her bags to the saddle and pushed herself up onto the horse, smiling down at her Kit, handsome and clean-shaven and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hers</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I asked Grieg to accompany you all the way to Flamesgrace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, gently kicking her horse, she rode off and heard Kit calling out after her, “Oh, come on! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her laughter rose all the way up to the morning sun.</span>
</p>
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